Crazy Mike and the July 4th block party

Posted 7/8/18

Many dogs fear fireworks. Crazy Mike was one Irish Setter who decidedly did not. One Fourth of July, he shared his enthusiasm for firecrackers with all the neighbors in a very flashy way.I grew up in …

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Crazy Mike and the July 4th block party

Many dogs fear fireworks. Crazy Mike was one Irish Setter who decidedly did not. One Fourth of July, he shared his enthusiasm for firecrackers with all the neighbors in a very flashy way.

I grew up in the ‘60s in Huntsville, Ala. (aka ‘Rocket City’) during the space race. Dads in the neighborhood made colossal rockets with enough bang to blast a tin can to the moon. They were fiends for their work, facial tics and all.

And they knew how to party. We had block parties at the drop of a hat. School’s out? Had your nails done? Grab the tables and lawn chairs. I’ll take the van to the liquor store!

Given the stress level and incendiary nature of their jobs, the dads loved their fireworks, too. There were always big paper sacks of them conveniently clustered like an arms depot in the center of the yard where kids could stroll by, grab firecrackers and let ‘em rip while the parents sipped their cocktails.

Fireworks were wide open in the 60s and darned if dads didn’t slip a few M-80s in the bags, too. It may have been their idea of toughening the kids for Vietnam. It was a kindler, gentler America back then.

There were as many dogs as kids running loose. I most remember Crazy Mike, an Irish Setter, every kid and dog’s hero. His owners came from California where I’m guessing Mike tangled with grizzlies, rattlesnakes and mountain lions with gusto.

He was also the only dog I knew trained in obedience. A curt command and Mike snapped to like a recruit in boot camp. But occasionally in his enthusiasm his big heart ruled his noggin.

It was twilight and the parents were stewing in their lawn chairs in as the shadows fell. Alabama on the Fourth of July. What had been sporadic rocket fire rose to a crescendo as the heavy stuff came out of the sacks and split the sky.

Kids ran through the crowd with sparklers and lit cigarettes, itching to set something off. Surprisingly, a match or cigarette landed in a sack of explosives. Well, I guess it surprised the parents who’d nodded off, anyway — we suddenly had our own Tet Offensive.

I just stared as the paper sack slammed up and down, glowing from the inside while rockets shot out and strafed the crowd. People fell flat. Lawn chairs tipped over. Babies shrieked.

Then a big red blur dove into the ring of rolling thunder — Crazy Mike couldn’t stand the challenge. He snatched the sack, sparks spewed, and he ran around and around in the crowd, dispensing patriotism and hell fire.

His owner said “drop it” but I guess the screamers, rattlers and whistlers blasting from his snout distracted Mike. He was busy shaking that sack like a giant exploding rat, littering lit missiles in his wake.

He dropped the sack about the time the M-80s in the bottom went off. Mike just stepped aside, let the bombs blast, then shook the singed shreds of bag just to be sure it was dead. Charred casings rattled out. Mike swaggered off without even a whisker singed.

The fireworks were gone. Our visioning and hearing, too. We all staggered home. And Mike got copious petting. He’d saved us from the crazy fire monster.

Bob McMillan is a columnist, section editor and lead paginator of the Herald-Citizen.